


purple lights in the canyon (that's where i long to be)

by satans_cinnamonroll



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Molly O'Shea Deserved Better, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Personal Growth, Slow Burn, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satans_cinnamonroll/pseuds/satans_cinnamonroll
Summary: Her first clue should've been the failed heist in Blackwater. Whispers of Dutch killing a defenseless young woman for seemingly no reason. That should have sent her running; she should haveknown.OR: Things are falling apart with Dutch. Molly doesn't want to fall apart with it.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Molly O'Shea, Past Molly O'Shea/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> howdy! this is my first thing i've written in nearly 2 years and it's my first time writing for this fandom. i am a silly little lesbian who loves molly and i couldn't find enough fanfics for her, so here i am writing one myself.  
> i currently have the next few chapters written, but this is mostly a WIP so i won't promise a consistent upload schedule. also, i have a 10K ficfest that i haven't even started on yet so my attention may be occasionally drawn away from this to work on that.  
> tags will be added as necessary! rating will probably change later on.

Molly’s face stung. And the cold and harsh wind, despite not being as bad in the Heartlands than in Colter, was not helping any.

Before Blackwater, Dutch had some fine ideas about violence towards women. He referred to abusive men as scum of the Earth, the lowest of the lows. Insisted he would never lay a hand on her, or any women for that matter.

Maybe that had been a lie. Although she had been naïve when she met Dutch, enchanted by his charisma and the promise of adventure, she wasn’t anymore. Not since Blackwater. Dutch liked to play himself up, boasting about progressive ideas to make himself seem righteous. To seem like a better man than he was. Molly could see that now.

Even if those thoughts had been true, something about Dutch had changed. Her first clue should’ve been the failed heist in Blackwater. Whispers of Dutch killing a defenseless young woman for seemingly no reason. Those of the gang that had witnessed it refused to talk about it, just as confused as those who had only heard about it.

That should’ve sent her running. Instead, she’d held onto the notion that Dutch loved her. That he needed her. As horrible as it was, Colter had pulled a blindfold over her. Nights spent wrapped up with Dutch, the feeling of intimacy. Sweet nothings whispered into her hair, promises of the future and a family and marriage. She should’ve _known_. All she was was a bed warmer. Another body to stave off the freezing temperatures.

Her face stung.

As she walked along the trail, all Molly could see were flashes of Dutch. Of his face, the rage that had been directed at her. She wasn’t even sure what triggered his anger. They argued, sure, but that had been hours earlier. They hadn’t spoken since; Molly took to writing in her journal, as far from camp as she dared while still feeling safe. All she’d done was enter the tent, not even speaking to Dutch, just wanting to lay down. And then she’d felt his hand.

In her hurry to get out of camp, she hadn’t even looked at herself to see the damage. Molly could feel blood down her cheek from where his rings had caught her. She was sure her face was as red as her hair, probably a very clear print of his backhand. The pain hadn't registered at first, drowned out by her shock at being backhanded.

Maybe she should’ve taken a horse from camp. They had quite a few spares, all stolen over the past few months. Taking a horse probably would’ve spurred more wrath from Dutch, though. Probably from everyone else in camp too, seeing as none of them were too keen on her.

She would feel safer though. Walking alone at night, her face busted with a steady stream of tears running down it, Molly knows what picture she’s painting. It’s pure luck that she hasn’t come across anyone, good or bad intentions otherwise. She doesn’t even have anything to defend herself, should she encounter some unfavorable people. Not that that would help either; it’s not like she knows how to shoot.

Molly had asked Dutch once to teach her, years ago. Figured she should know, since she was running with the gang. Dutch had declined. Said that she wouldn’t need to know, that no one would be able to even come close to her.

 _Maybe he just preferred his playthings to be helpless_ , Molly thought bitterly. _Entirely dependent on him._ Dutch did have a thirst for control. 

Valentine was a welcome reprieve from the deserted trails.

The town was lively despite the late hour, bathed in warm lights. When they had first rode in Molly hadn’t been too fond of the town, too dirty and too loud for her tastes, filled with drunkards and beggars. Now, she’ll happily take Valentine over being in camp.

Mindlessly, Molly wanders towards the saloon. A drink sounded very good right now.

The saloon is so crowded that no one bats an eye when she enters. All the men are either too captivated with their poker games or already cozying up to the working girls to pay attention to a single woman sitting at the bar.

The barkeep notices her though. “What can I get ya, miss?” he asks.

“Just a whiskey.”, Molly replies.

As the barkeep fetches her drink, Molly flits her gaze around the room. Things are getting unruly at the poker table, voices raising by the minute. It’s probably only a few minutes before a fight breaks out. Molly wants no part of it, but it would serve for some entertainment. Anything to take her mind off Dutch.

She’s startled out of her thoughts when the barkeep sets her drink in front of her. Nodding her head in thanks, Molly takes the glass in hand and takes a small sip. It burns as it goes down.

She’s never been a big drinker. In her travels, Molly has seen the hold it can take on people. Her mind flits to Karen, who’s always deep into a bottle whenever Molly sees her. She doesn’t want to be like that.

If Karen were here, or Grimshaw, or any of the others, they would probably have some snarky remark about her hesitance to drink. Whatever. It’s not like Molly particularly cares what they think of her. (She does).

Molly knocks the rest of the whiskey back. It doesn’t make her feel any better.

“Another”.

Molly _loves_ Dutch. All she wants to do is help him. There’s something wrong, and he won’t tell her what.

“I love him,” Molly mummers to herself. She’s staring into her glass as she says it, slowly swirling it around. “I loved him”.

She thinks herself a fool. Only a fool would still love a man after he hit her. Only a fool would think that Dutch van der Linde loved them.

The whiskey burns less this time when she knocks it back. It still doesn’t help any. Molly desperately wants it to.

This time, when the barkeep meanders back over to her, she asks for the whole bottle.


	2. Chapter 2

If asked, Arthur would deny that he’s been avoiding camp lately. He would say that he’s just been busy, collecting debts and doing a few odd jobs for strangers that pay well. The camp needs food, and money, and medical supplies, all of which he is working tirelessly to get. They would understand.

Truthfully, though, he is avoiding camp. He’s been easily agitated recently. Staying out of camp means that he won’t take it out on any of the members, although some of them rightly deserve it. He can think of a few people who aren’t pulling their weight. If he were to run across Micah in camp, he isn’t confident in his ability to hold his tongue. Or his fists.

Arthur knows well enough that thinking like that gets him nowhere. He remembers when he was younger, first picked up by Dutch and Hosea, when he couldn’t reign in his anger. Or wouldn’t, rather. He’s too old for that now. He doesn’t want to be that person unless he absolutely needs to be.

So he stays out of camp more often than not. He’s always enjoyed going off on his own, being with just his horse and journal and the occasional stranger he’d run into. It calms him down, so when he does have to spend time in camp he doesn’t feel like he’s on the brink of rage.

His most recent trip out of camp has been to hunt. He’s bagged quite a few good pelts and plenty of meat, enough to fill Pearson’s stew for at least a week.

Arthur also ran into an interesting man, not too far from Flatneck Station. He’d bought a treasure map off the man. It could be nothing, treasure already gone or having never existed in the first place. Or it could mean a lot of money for the gang.

He’s already planning his next excursion as he enters Valentine. He doesn’t plan on hanging around, just long enough to sell the pelts and to stop by the general store. Jack had asked for some candy and Arthur was incapable of saying no to the boy.

Arthur wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings as he went about his business. It was eerily quiet in the early morning hours, not many people out on the streets.

He’s just exiting the general store when he hears it. Small, hiccuping sobs and sniffles from the side of the saloon. Soft mutterings of “I loved him,” in a distinct irish accent that Arthur can’t in his right mind ignore.

Peeking down the small alley between the general store and saloon, Arthur immediately spots Molly. She’s slumped against the wall, head hanging and a whiskey bottle clutched loosely in her hands.

He steps down from the porch. “Miss O’Shea?”

Molly doesn’t seem to hear him, lost in her own world. Arthur decides to move closer, taking slow steps like he’s approaching a wild horse that he needs to calm down. He can’t help but think that he’s not cut out for this. Comforting women has always been a little out of his depth.

He comes to a crouch in front of her. “Molly?”

This time, she looks up at him. Arthur’s stomach flips uncomfortably at the sight of her.

Her red curls, normally neatly arranged and cared for, hang in tangles around her face. Green eyes have lost their shine, glazed over from the drink and tears. Most glaringly, the redness and small gashes covering her cheek. Arthur suspects they’re fresh, the cuts not yet scabbed over and the bruise just starting to turn purplish.

“Ahh, Arthur,” Molly slurs, “Did Dutch send ya after me? Tell ya to get rid of me, make sure I don’t come back?”

Dutch. Arthur was suspecting this had something to do with him, with how much arguing the lovers had done recently. But this...this was another level.

Before he can respond, can assure Molly that no, you’re not being forced to leave and that he hasn’t even been at camp in days, she continues with her drunken rambling.

“I love him, you know? I want to help him but he won’t let me. That’s what I’m here to do. To help him, to support him. How am I to do that if he won’t tell me what’s wrong?” She pauses. Goes to take a swig from the whiskey bottle but Arthur manages to ease it out of her hand. Undeterred, she continues, “I gave up everything for him. I ain’t got nowhere else to go. I love him. I loved him.”

The whiskey has truly brought out her accent, to the point where Arthur is struggling to understand what she’s saying anymore. He gets the feeling that she’s no longer ranting to him directly, just looking to get it out of her system.

He does hear something about the camp not liking her. Maybe if you would do more around camp or stop pretending you’re better than the rest of us, he wants to say. He does have enough tact to recognize that now is not the time.

Instead, he maneuvers one of Molly’s arms around his shoulders and grabs a hold of her waist, hefting Molly to her feet and starts moving back towards the street. He can only imagine how much she’s drunk, her head listing around until it comes to rest on his shoulder and her rambles continuing. Arthur is doing most of the moving; Molly’s feet mostly drag along the ground or stumble every few steps.

“C’mon, Miss O’Shea” he mutters, “Gonna get you a room at the inn and let you sober up.”

The clerk at the inn hardly bats an eye at Molly’s state. He asks Arthur not to cause any more trouble this time, instead, which he waves off.

Getting Molly up the stairs is a feat. She’s gone mostly limp against him, likely her exhaustion finally catching up to her. If he were Dutch, maybe he would give up and just carry her up the stairs, but he’s not. Molly has shown that she’s loyal to Dutch; Arthur doesn’t think sober Molly would appreciate him carrying her.

Eventually they make it into the room. Arthur awkwardly pulls back the covers and dumps Molly not-so-gently onto the bed. At some point she stopped crying, tear tracks dried on her face.

“Alright, Miss O’Shea, you just...you just rest up now, ya hear?”

All he gets in reply is a quiet snore. He is grateful for that.

Arthur glances around the room. He looks at the door. The uncomfortable looking chair in the corner.

He didn’t have any business left in town. And there was no way he’d head back to camp without Molly- he hadn’t recognized any of the horses from camp, so he imagined she had walked into town. He couldn’t leave her here, let her wake up alone and confused and walk alone back into camp.

Sighing, he stalked over to the chair and sat down. Arthur pulled his journal from his satchel and settled in for the next few hours.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in updating! anyway, hope y'all enjoy this chapter! we're getting into the meat of the story, so chapter's will be getting longer as we go!

Molly wakes up confused, her head pounding something fierce. 

She doesn’t know where she is. The last thing she remembers was stumbling out of the saloon, whiskey bottle in hand, and even that memory is very fuzzy. A small amount of panic runs through her, but it’s quickly drowned out as she sits up, the pounding in her head getting worse and vision blacking out.

It takes a few minutes before she regains her senses, blinking spots out of her vision as she takes in her surroundings. She’s in a bed, still fully dressed, corset and shoes and all. The room is sparsely decorated, just a wardrobe against the adjacent wall and a chair in the corner across from her. While she’s alone now, she doesn’t think she has been for long; there’s a satchel and coat draped across the chair, the seat still slightly warm to the touch. 

The coat and satchel look familiar, although she can’t put her finger on why. 

Molly has moved back to the bed for only a few short minutes when she hears footsteps approaching the room. There’s nothing in the room she can use as a weapon should her visitor be unfavorable. Her fingers clench around the bedspread, shoulders tense as the door begins to open. 

She isn’t expecting Arthur to walk into the room. It does explain why the belongings on the chair had seemed familiar though- she’d never seen Arthur without the well worn brown duster or his satchel. If she had been in a better state, Molly probably would’ve identified them as Arthur’s right off the bat.

Molly can’t help but stare in shock as Arthur nudges the door closed with his foot, hands busy holding mugs of what smells like coffee. “Figured you’d be wakin up soon,” he says when he notices her staring. “Brought you some coffee.” 

He holds the mug out to her expectantly. Molly is slow to grab it, mind reeling. She just holds it in her hands for a few moments, eyes following Arthur as he settles himself into the chair. 

Arthur has always been the quiet sort, which Molly basks in at the moment. He doesn’t expect her to talk at the moment, seeming much more interested in his coffee than her. 

They sit like that for a while. Slowly sipping on what might possibly be the worst coffee Molly has ever tasted. 

It’s strange; Molly has never interacted much with Arthur in the camp. (Although, that’s not saying much. Molly hasn’t really interacted with anyone in camp aside from Dutch). Still, he speaks to her more than the others, sometimes checking in on how she’s doing, how she likes the camp. Occasionally he’ll try to goad her into sitting at the campfire or helping the women out, always raising hands in mock surrender when she refuses but never completely giving up. 

_It could be worse,_ Molly thinks. 

It takes all of five minutes before it gets worse.

Arthur has set aside his mug, face twisted into that small frown he does when he’s working himself up to say something. It’s an expression Molly has seen quite frequently since Blackwater, when Dutch is going on about some plan or another and Arthur tries to talk him out of it. 

Dread settles in her stomach. 

Arthur clears his throat, finally looking up at her from his chair across the room. “Dutch do that to you?” He asks. 

Despite everything, Molly’s first instinct is to defend Dutch. But she gets a feeling that Arthur wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t already know. 

Voicing it aloud makes it real, something she can’t turn back from. Molly settles for a small nod instead, hand flitting up to feel her cheek.

“Do you, uh- do you want out?” A pause. “Of the gang, I mean.”

Molly snaps her head up, anger rising in her. She forces herself out of the bed, ignoring the spots in her vision when she does. “Oh, is that what this is, then? Did Dutch send ya to get rid of me?” 

Arthur just looks up at her, face a mixture of confusion and frustration. “What the hell? I told you earlier, no. I ain’t even been in camp, Miss O’Shea, let alone talk to Dutch.” 

He pauses, clearly trying to think of his next words. Molly has overheard stories in camp, knows that Arthur is a bit awkward with spoken words and struggles to articulate what he truly means, but she’s just so angry. 

“I mean, you seem...unhappy, with camp life. If you want out…” He trails off. 

Molly scoffs. “And go where, hmm? I gave up everything for Dutch. I ain’t welcome back home.”

“Well stay, then. Despite what you think, no one’s gonna force ya out.”

“Yeah? Even when Dutch is done with me? Cause I ain’t stupid, Arthur, I know I ain’t well liked in camp.”

Molly can tell that Arthur’s frustration is growing, his voices gruffer when he says “Well maybe if you did more in camp than just sit and stare at yourself. If you helped out around camp-” 

“I ain’t no one’s servant girl! I refuse to be bossed around by the likes of Grimshaw.” 

Arthur’s voice starts to raise. “It ain’t being a servant girl. We all gotta do our part, Miss O’Shea.”

“Well, my part ain’t washing and cleaning, not with those girls.” 

“We may not be from a high society like you, but that doesn’t mean you’re any better than those girls or the rest of us.” Arthur stands up, clearly agitated. “And if you don’t wanna work with the girls, maybe you should work with the men. Hunting and doing jobs with us, huh? Get your hands a bit dirty, a bit bloody. Is that more suited to you, Miss O’Shea?” 

“Maybe I will!” Molly shouts back.

It’s obvious that Arthur wasn’t quite expecting that. He blinks at her, voice once again lowered when he asks, “You even know how to shoot?”

“No,” Molly admits, “but I can learn. You’d have to teach me though, cause Dutch refuses.”

“What do you mean Dutch refuses?” 

“I’ve asked, and he said no. So you’d have to teach me instead.” 

They’re staring at each other. Arthur just looks confused now, brows furrowed. 

Arthur goes to say something, but he’s interrupted by a knock on the door. Molly is grateful, slightly afraid of whatever Arthur was going to say. 

“Yes?” Arthur calls out.

“Were you still interested in that bath sir? The room is free now if so. Just come down whenever you’re ready.” The worker doesn’t wait for a reply, and they can hear her footsteps fading as she moves away from the door. 

Arthur looks back at her. “I, er, figured you’d want to bathe.” 

Molly takes a deep breath. She does feel gross, and sore, but she’d been too preoccupied with their argument to pay it any mind. 

Both their moods have cooled with the interruption, but the air is still tense and Molly nods. Arthur grabs his belongings and heads out of the hotel room, Molly following behind him as they descend the stairs. 

The clerk looks up at them as they enter the small lobby.

“The lady would like a bath.” Arthur says. 

“Alright, sir,” the clerk replies. “Whenever you’re ready, miss, you can head down the hall.” 

Arthur slings his satchel over his shoulder, adjusting his hat on his head. “I’ll get us some food in the meantime.” 

He turns towards the door. Without thinking, Molly grabs his wrist before he can exit. “Thank you.” she’s sincere when she says it.

Arthur nods at her. Dropping her hand, Molly watches him stalk over to the saloon before turning back to the hotel. A bath sounded quite nice.

There was a mirror in the hotel room, but Molly hadn’t wanted to look at herself with Arthur in the room. Now, as she undresses by herself in the bath room, she takes a moment to look at herself in the mirror. 

Her face is very red. Her cheek has swollen a bit, tinged purple where a bruise is starting to form. The cuts from Dutch’s rings have scabbed over slightly, a bit hard for her to see amidst the discoloration of her cheek. 

Molly turns away. She doesn’t want to look at herself anymore. 

Sinking into the hot water feels heavenly. She lets herself relax against the tub, closing her eyes and just basking in the feeling. 

After a few minutes, she reluctantly sits up a bit and starts scrubbing at her hair. It’s quite tangled, and it takes a while to work out the tangles and specks of dirt. 

As she scrubs at her skin, Molly lets herself consider what she’s gotten herself into. Truly, the thought of getting herself covered in blood from hunting or doing jobs doesn’t sound very appealing. She’s seen what the men look like sometimes when they come back to camp, blood staining their clothes, their skin, their hair.

 _Although,_ Molly thinks, _if it gives me an excuse to take baths like this more often, maybe it’d be worth it._

Arthur is sitting at the bar in the saloon when Molly eventually makes her way over. He seems to be deep in thought as she walks up and slips onto the stool next to him, doing little to acknowledge her presence aside from sliding a plate of steaming food over to her.

Molly leaves him to his thoughts as she eats, although curiosity is picking at her. Arthur can be a hard person to read when he chooses to be. 

Between the bath and the hot meal, Molly is feeling marginally better than she had been. Her face still stings, but the rest of her sores have settled, leaving her to feel relaxed. 

Arthur doesn’t speak until she’s nearly finished with her meal. 

“Did Dutch really refuse to teach you how to shoot?” He asks. 

“Yea,” Molly nods, “Said I wouldn’t need to know.” 

Arthur grunts at that, finally looking at her. “I’ll do my best to teach ya, although I can’t promise I’ll make a good teacher.” 

“Thank you, Arthur. Really.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re running with a gang. I don’t know what Dutch was thinking, but it’s something you should know.”

Arthur stands from his stool, throwing a few coins on the bar. “And if you’re really gonna learn and do jobs, then you’ll need your own horse. I’ve got one stabled here in town you can use for now.” 

Having just finished her food, Molly is quick to follow Arthur out of the saloon. His own horse Ariadne is hitched nearby, and Molly goes over to her as Arthur makes his way to the stables. Ariadne is a sweet girl, nuzzling against Molly’s hand as she pets her. 

After a few minutes, Arthur is heading back towards them, leading another horse with him. 

“This is Atticus. He’s a good boy, not the fastest or biggest horse but he’ll do for now.” He hands the reins to Molly and moves to pull something out of his satchel. “Here, give him a few sugar cubes and he’ll be sweet on you forever.” 

He places a sugar cube in her outstretched hand, turning to his own horse as Molly gets closer to Atticus. “Here you go boy,” she mutters, standing still as he eats the sugar cube out of her hand. 

They saddle up and start making their way out of town. Once they’re past the boundaries of town, Molly turns to Arthur.  
“I know what probably you and everyone else in camp thinks of me, Arthur. But I am serious about this.” Arthur meets her eyes, looking like he’s about to say something but Molly continues. “And I do appreciate that you’re gonna teach me. So, thank you.” 

There’s more she wants to say, but no more words come to her. Instead, she settles for a nod when Arthur says, “It ain’t no problem, Molly.” 

They aren’t to far from camp now. However, before they can enter the trees surrounding Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur holds out his hand to stop the horses. 

“What’re you gonna do bout Dutch?” he asks. 

Molly’s face stings in time with his question. She hasn’t thought about it, trying to ignore her nerves at seeing Dutch again since the other night.

“I don’t know.” She replies, honest.

**Author's Note:**

> if y'all wanna hit me up, you can find me on twitter @mochiiosh or on tumblr @lilytaengoo !!


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